


every move you make (i'll be watching you)

by vandoorne



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Glory Hole, Horror, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsessive Behavior, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandoorne/pseuds/vandoorne
Summary: it's a feeling that maurice cannot shake off — someone is watching him, but he cannot tell who it is.
Relationships: Stalker Fan/Famous Athlete He Catches In A Compromising Position
Comments: 3
Kudos: 145
Collections: Multifandom Horror Exchange (2020)





	every move you make (i'll be watching you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatgothlibrarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgothlibrarian/gifts).



This is something that Maurice does to take his mind off things, nothing more. There's something about being down on his knees in a public toilet, with his lips wrapped around another man's cock, blowing him through a hole in the wall that gets to him. Slicking the man's cock up, getting him all nice and wet. All the better if the man's cock is long and thick, just the way Maurice likes it. He loves it when he lines the man's cock up with his asshole, exhaling shakily when he pushes back, fucking himself on his cock.

It's a good way for him to relieve all the pent up frustration he has about his job. Just let someone fuck him, let someone rail him through a toilet wall. The bigger the cock, the better, he thinks. Perfect to fuck his brains out and let him forget about reality, just for a while.

Maurice hates it when he has to stumble out of the cubicle, dishevelled and fucked out. He has to wear a mask, of course. He cannot risk anyone finding out about his little secret, after all.

See, Maurice is a professional footballer, and the last thing he wants is to be caught in such a position.

There are fans, and there are _fans_. Maurice isn't too worried about the fans who surround him online, because those are part and parcel of what being a professional footballer in a major Premier League team is about. He's used to the messages that people bombard him with on social media after each match — apart from the usual messages of encouragement, there are the run of the mill cursing and generic death threats when he scores against an opponent, death threats when he does well or doesn't do well, scores and scores of adoration. He doesn't bother reading the replies that people post. Best to ignore the bullshit that people feel entitled to say behind the anonymity of a computer screen.

What's more worrying are the fans who are present in real life. There are the hardcore fans who seem to show up at every home and away match, those who actually wait outside for the team buses to arrive without fail. There are fans that Maurice sees from time to time, in his neighbourhood. Some of them seem like they genuinely live in the area. Those are fine, they generally know their limits. Some, however...

It's a feeling that Maurice cannot shake off. It's a strange feeling, creeping up on him. If he were to pinpoint what exactly it is, he'd say that it's the same sort of feeling that he gets when he kicks the ball on the pitch and he knows that it's not going to make it to wherever he had intended it to. Someone is watching him. As for who that someone is, he cannot say for sure. He turns around, uneasy, scanning the crowd around him for what should be a familiar face. After all, who else but one of the hardcore fans would be following him around? Maurice has seen them all, and if anything, he has a knack for recognising faces. He should be able to tell.

But no, there isn't anyone. The unsettling feeling doesn't go away, even as he tries to reassure himself. Even at practice, the feeling stays there, and there's practically no one else at the pitch apart from the team.

'You're being paranoid,' Jerald says. Jerald, their ever dependable captain. He slings an arm over Maurice's shoulders, leaning in. 'And besides, between you and me, I honestly think that Antonio over there is most likely to be the target of a stalker fan. You and I are way too old for this shit.'

Maurice laughs, in spite of himself. Jerald has a point. Compared to their young star, freshly transferred to their team, Maurice definitely doesn't have the same sort of appeal. He's in his early thirties — old enough to be referred to as _elderly_ by more vitriolic members of the online community. 'You're right,' he says, following Jerald out of their locker room, on to the pitch. 'Maybe I'm just worried about the upcoming match.'

Jerald beams. 'That's the Maurice I know,' he says, slapping Maurice's back.

The feeling of being watched doesn't go away for the next few weeks. Maurice has to admit that yes, he's a little suspicious of the things that are going on around him. He's had a pair of boxers go missing from the locker room, but Jerald had chalked it up to _shit happens_ , and besides, if any of his teammates had accidentally swiped his underwear, would anyone even say so? Maurice supposes that no, that would be far too embarrassing. Then it had been a drink bottle. A towel.

Come to think of it, all of these things would go missing from time to time. Someone would misplace something. Someone would throw something away by accident. Someone would take something by accident. It's not as if all of these things have never happened before. It's just that it's only now that Maurice is slowly becoming more and more aware that well, these things actually _happen_. Jerald points this out to Maurice, and the other members of the team echo his sentiments.

Right. It's stress. Stress is getting to Maurice, especially after seeing just how well Antonio is doing on the team. It's the usual insecurity setting in, nothing more.

And well, against his better judgement, Maurice continues with his activities anyway. It's anonymous sex after all, albeit in a public toilet. No one will know, right? In the safety of the toilet cubicle, apart from the hole in which another man's cock is coming through. There's no one watching here, and even if there were, Maurice is careful enough anyway so that he wouldn't be identified too easily. He needs this. Needs to be fucked hard, needs to take cock after cock up his ass, to be fucked until he comes without even touching himself.

When he's having sex, like this, the feeling goes away. No one is watching him. Everything is fine.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

The glass of water that Maurice usually has before bed tastes a little sweeter than usual, but it isn't much of any issue, he supposes. He's taken some sleeping pills, to help cope with his recent insomnia. It's the pills, not the water, he reasons. He climbs into bed, and sleeps soundly.

The next morning, Maurice feels strangely sore. His pyjamas feel disgusting. He doesn't remember anything, but somehow, he must've had a wet dream the night before. That is the only explanation that he can think of based on his current state.

For some strange reason, his ass feels sore. As if he had been fucked roughly by someone, who had stretched him out far too much without enough preparation. Could he have tried to finger himself in his sleep? Maurice wouldn't be surprised if he did, considering how he had actually jerked off while dreaming before, waking up with dried come all over his hand. This, however, would be a new low, he supposes.

But anyway. Just a dream, nothing more.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Maurice scores a goal in a match. It's the only goal his team scores in 90 minutes, and there are cheers all round, especially since they're on home ground.

Throughout the celebrations, Maurice cannot help but feel that someone is watching him. Watching his every move, staring at him, trying to burn everything he does into his memory. But he looks around, and there is no one. Just his teammates, the managers, the staff at the club that they're currently partying at. And well, other patrons who are far too busy drinking or dancing to even notice him.

There's no one. Just what the fuck is he worried about?

Maurice returns to his flat completely wasted. He falls face first on to his bed, and he's fast asleep in a matter of seconds.

Thing is, Maurice isn't alone when he climbs into his bed for the night. He hasn't been alone in his bed for a while now. That feeling he had of being watched? It hadn't been mere paranoia.

See, there had been someone who had been _watching_. Someone who had been very good at hiding himself among the crowd, blending in as part of the cleaning crew, as wait staff in a restaurant. He had been so good at what he did, and the fact that Maurice had been able to tell that someone had been watching had been a serious error on his part.

In the beginning, he had been content just to watch Maurice, just like all the other fans. But one thing had led to another, and soon he had started to follow Maurice around. Then he had discovered Maurice's habit.

He had been tempted to enter the adjacent cubicle, to fuck Maurice through the hole in the wall. He had been attracted to Maurice all this time, but he had convinced himself that no, there were certain lines that he couldn't cross. And oh, the joy of finding out just what Maurice craved so badly. To think that what he enjoyed most was not the game of football, but to be fucked hard over and over by faceless men in a public cubicle. How filthy. How depraved. How fucking _perfect_.

He had made eye contact with Maurice once, by accident. Once, when Maurice had been on his morning run. That was when he had discovered where Maurice lived. It had been nothing but a genuine coincidence that he had taken advantage of.

He looks at Maurice's sleeping figure, peeling his clothes off slowly. How would Maurice feel when he fucks him, clenching down on his cock? He's had Maurice a couple of times now, in his sleep, mostly while Maurice had been knocked out by his sleeping pills and of course, the drugs that he had spiked his water with. Those experiences had been nothing short of sublime. The first time he had taken Maurice, he had found that Maurice had been still tight enough, much to his surprise. Even after all the cock he had taken in the toilet cubicle. Each time he had been careful, had worn a condom, despite how much he had wanted to fuck Maurice raw, to fill him up over and over and mark him thoroughly as his. No, best to be careful, so he wouldn't be found out. As expected, Maurice had been none the wiser, waving it all away as nothing more than _wet dreams_.

But no, there's only so much satisfaction he can get out of that. He wants more, _needs_ more. See, Maurice should belong to him, and to no one else. No one else deserves Maurice more than he does. He's been watching Maurice ever since he was a mere child in primary school. It's been over a decade, and he has been to almost every game Maurice has played in. Even when others spoke negatively of Maurice, called him nothing but a player past his prime, he had defended him online, over and over. At first he had been just a regular fan with a blog, then he had grown to become the number one source of news on Twitter, the most well known fan that Maurice has online. Surely he _deserves_ Maurice more than anyone else, right? Especially since he had found out about his little secret and kept his mouth shut about it. No, Maurice doesn't need all those other men to satisfy him. He can do it better than anyone else can. Maurice needs only him. See, he's learnt so much about what Maurice enjoys best already. Only he knows how to make Maurice come in his sleep; he'll definitely be able to make Maurice come over and over even when he's awake. He's so much better than everyone else. Maurice needs to know. He's the only one for Maurice. Maurice doesn't need anyone else. All he needs is football, and _him_. No one else.

Tonight, it's only alcohol that's keeping Maurice docile and fast asleep underneath him. Would Maurice awaken halfway? Would Maurice struggle as he finds out that his ass is being pounded by what is probably the thickest cock he has ever taken? Or would Maurice continue to moan and beg for more?

He grins, parting Maurice's ass cheeks, dribbling lube down the crack of his ass. Maurice's asshole twitches, as if in anticipation of being fucked hard.

Right. Time to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> \- beta by I, tysm!  
> \- title from [every breath you take](https://youtu.be/OMOGaugKpzs) by the police.


End file.
